Over the rest of the events of that terrible night I draw a veil. There are some things it is as well not to speak of. Only I may state that all through the horror and confusion Percy Ringan, thanks to my strong sleeping draught, slumbered as peacefully as a child, thereby saving his life.
With the morning’s light came discoveries and explanations. We found one of the panels behind the tapestry of the Blue Room open, and it gave admittance into a passage which on examination proved to lead into Frank Ringan’s bedroom. On the floor we discovered a delicate hand formed of steel, and which bore marks of having been in the fire. On my right wrist were three distinct burns, which I have no hesitation in declaring were caused by the mechanical hand which we picked up near the dead man. And the explanation of these things came from Miss Laura, who was wild with terror at the death of her master, and said in her first outburst of grief and fear, what I am sure she regretted in her calmer moments.
“It’s all Frank’s fault,” she wept. “He was poor and wished to be rich. He got Percy to make his will in his favour, and wanted to kill him by a shock. He knew that Percy had heart disease and that a shock might prove fatal; so he contrived that his cousin should sleep in the Blue Room on Christmas Eve; and he himself played the ghost of Lady Joan with the burning hand. It was a steel hand, which he heated in his own room so as to mark with a scar those it touched.”
“Whose idea was this?” I asked, horrified by the devilish ingenuity of the scheme.
“Frank’s!” said Miss Laura, candidly. “He promised to marry me if I helped him to get the money by Percy’s death. We found that there was a secret passage leading to the Blue Room; so some years ago we invented the story that it was haunted.”
“Why, in God’s name?”
“Because Frank was always poor. He knew that his cousin in Australia had heart disease, and invited him home to kill him with fright. To make things safe he was always talking about the haunted room and telling the story so that everything should be ready for Percy on his arrival. Our plans were all carried out. Percy arrived and Frank got him to make the will in his favour. Then he was told the story of Lady Joan and her hand, and by setting fire to Percy’s room last night I got him to sleep in the Blue Chamber without any suspicion being aroused.”
“You wicked woman!” I cried. “Did you fire Percy’s room on purpose?”
“Yes. Frank promised to marry me if I helped him. We had to get Percy to sleep in the Blue Chamber, and I managed it by setting fire to his bedroom. He would have died with fright when Frank, as Lady Joan, touched him with the steel hand, and no one would have been the wiser. Your sleeping in that haunted room saved Percy’s life, Dr. Lascelles, yet Frank invited you down as part of his scheme, that you might examine the body and declare the death to be a natural one.”
“Was it Frank who burnt the wrist of Herbert Spencer some years ago?” I asked.
“Yes!” replied Miss Laura, wiping her red eyes. “We thought if the ghost appeared to a few other people, that Percy’s death might seem more natural. It was a mere coincidence that Mr. Spencer died three months after the ghost touched him.”
“Do you know you are a very wicked woman, Miss Laura?”
“I am a very unhappy one,” she retorted. “I have lost the only man I ever loved; and his miserable cousin survives to step into his shoes as the master of Ringshaw Grange.”
That was the sole conversation I had with the wretched woman, for shortly afterwards she disappeared, and I fancy must have gone abroad, as she was never more heard of. At the inquest held on the body of Frank the whole strange story came out, and was reported at full length by the London press to the dismay of ghost-seers: for the fame of Ringshaw Grange as a haunted mansion had been great in the land.
I was afraid lest the jury should bring in a verdict of manslaughter against me, but the peculiar features of the case being taken into consideration I was acquitted of blame, and shortly afterwards returned to India with an unblemished character. Percy Ringan was terribly distressed on hearing of his cousin’s death, and shocked by the discovery of his treachery. However, he was consoled by becoming the head of the family, and as he lives a quiet life at Ringshaw Grange there is not much chance of his early death from heart disease—at all events from a ghostly point of view.
The Blue Chamber is shut up, for it is haunted now by a worse spectre than that of Lady Joan, whose legend (purely fictitious) was so ingeniously set forth by Frank. It is haunted by the ghost of the cold-blooded scoundrel who fell into his own trap; and who met with his death in the very moment he was contriving that of another man. As to myself, I have given up ghost-hunting and sleeping in haunted rooms. Nothing will ever tempt me to experiment in that way again. One adventure of that sort is enough to last me a lifetime.
A WREATH FOR MARLEY
Max Allan Collins
THE VERSATILE AND PROLIFIC MAX ALLAN COLLINS has written dozens of novels, including some about Nolan, a hit man; Mallory, a mystery writer who solves real-life crimes; Eliot Ness, who gained fame as the leader of the Untouchables; and Nathan Heller, a Chicago P. I. who becomes involved in well-known crimes of the era, meeting up with such famous characters as Orson Welles and Sally Rand, the fan-dancer. He also wrote the Dick Tracy comic strip, some Batman comic books, and created the comic book private eye Ms. Tree. His graphic novel, Road to Perdition, became the basis of the Academy Award–winning Tom Hanks film. “A Wreath for Marley” was first published in Dante’s Disciples, edited by Peter Crowther and Edward E. Kramer (Clarkston, GA, White Wolf, 1995).
A Wreath for Marley
MAX ALLAN COLLINS
PRIVATE DETECTIVE RICHARD STONE wasn’t much for celebrations, or holidays—or holiday celebrations, for that matter.
Nonetheless, this Christmas Eve, in the year of our Lord 1942, he decided to throw a little holiday party in the modest two-room suite of offices on Wabash that he had once shared with his late partner, Jake Marley.
Present for the festivities were his sandy-tressed cutie-pie secretary, Katie Crockett, and his fresh-faced young partner, Joey Ernest. Last to arrive was his best pal (at least since Jake died), burly homicide dick Sgt. Hank Ross.
Katie had strung up some tinsel and decorated a little tree by her reception desk. Right now the little group was having a Yuletide toast with heavily rum-spiked egg nog. The darkly handsome Stone’s spirits were good—just this morning, he’d been declared 4-F, thanks to his flat feet.
“Every flatfoot should have ’em!” he laughed.
“What’d you do?” Ross asked. “Bribe the draft-board doc?”
“What’s it to you?” Stone grinned. “You cops get automatic deferments!”
And the two men clinked cups.
Actually, bribing the draft-board doctor was exactly what Stone had done; but he saw no need to mention it.
“Hell,” Joey said—and the word was quite a curse coming from this kid—“I wish I could go. If it wasn’t for this damn perforated eardrum …”
“You and Sinatra,” Stone laughed.
Katie said nothing; her eyes were on the framed picture on her desk—her young brother Ben, who was spending Christmas in the Pacific somewhere.
“I got presents for all of you,” Stone said, handing envelopes around.
“What’s this?” Joey asked, confused, opening his envelope to see a slip of paper with a name and address on the South Side.
“Best black market butcher in the city,” Stone said. “You and the missus and the brood can start the next year out with a coupla sirloins, on me.”
“I’d feel funny about that … it’s not legal.…”
“Jesus! How can you be such a square and still work for me? You’re lucky there’s a manpower shortage, kid.”
Ross, envelope open, was thumbing through five twenty-dollar bills. “You always know just what to get me, Stoney.”
“Cops are so easy to shop for,” Stone said.
Katie, seeming embarrassed, whispered her thanks into Stone’s ear.<
br />
“Think nothin’ of it, baby,” he said. “It’s as much for me as for you.”
He’d given her a fifty-dollar gift certificate at the lingerie counter at Marshall Field’s. Not every boss would be so generous.
They all had gifts for him, too: Joey gave him a ten-dollar war bond, Katie a hand-tooled leather shoulder holster, and Hank the latest Esquire “Varga” calendar.
“To give this rat-trap some class,” the cop said.
Joey raised his cup. “Here’s to Mr. Marley,” he said.
“To Mr. Marley,” Katie said, her eyes suddenly moist. “Rest his soul.”
“Yeah,” Ross said, lifting his cup, “here’s to Jake—dead a year to the day.”
“To the night, actually,” Stone said, and hoisted his cup. “What the hell—to my partner Jake. You were a miserable bastard, but Merry Christmas, anyway.”
“You shouldn’t talk that way!” Katie said.
“Even if it’s the truth?” Stone asked with a smirk.
Suddenly it got quiet.
Then Ross asked, “Doesn’t it bother you, Stoney? You’re a detective and your partner’s murder goes unsolved? Ain’t it bad for business?”
“Naw. Not when you do mostly divorce work.”
Ross grinned, shook his head. “Stoney, you’re an example to us all,” he said, waved, and ambled out.
Katie had a heartsick expression. “Doesn’t Mr. Marley’s death mean anything to you? He was your best friend!”
Stone patted his .38 under his shoulder. “Sadie here’s my best friend. And, sure, Marley’s death means something to me: full ownership of the business, and the only name on the door is mine.”
She shook her head, slowly, sadly. “I’m so disappointed in you, Richard.…”
He took her gently aside. “Then I’m not welcome at your apartment anymore?” he whispered.
“Of course you’re welcome. I’m still hoping you’ll come have Christmas dinner with my family and me, tomorrow.”
“I’m not much for family gatherings. Ain’t it enough I got you the black-market turkey?”
“Richard!” She shushed him. “Joey will hear.…”
“What, and find out you’re no Saint Kate?” He gave her a smack of a kiss on the forehead, then patted her fanny. “See you the day after … we’ll give that new casino on Rush Street a try.”
She sighed, said, “Merry Christmas, Richard,” gathered her coat and purse, and went out.
Now it was just Joey and Stone. The younger man said, “You know, Katie’s starting to get suspicious.”
“About what?”
“About what. About you and Mrs. Marley!”
Stone snorted. “Katie just thinks I’m bein’ nice to my late partner’s widow.”
“You being ‘nice’ is part of why it seems so suspicious. While you were out today, Mrs. Marley called about five times.”
“The hell! Katie didn’t say so.”
“See what I mean?” Joey plucked his topcoat off the coat tree. “Mr. Stone—please don’t expect me to keep covering for you. It makes me feel … dirty.”
“Are you sure you were born in Chicago, kid?” Stone opened the door for him. “Go home! Have yourself a merry the hell little Christmas! Tell your kids Santa’s comin’, send ’em up to bed, and make the missus under the mistletoe one time for me.”
“Thanks for the sentiment, Mr. Stone,” he said, and was gone.
Stone—alone, now—decided to skip the egg nog and head straight for the rum. He was downing a cup when a knock called him to the door.
Two representatives of the Salvation Army stepped into his outer office, in uniform—a white-haired old gent, with a charity bucket, and a pretty shapely thing, her innocent face devoid of make-up under the Salvation Army bonnet.
“We’re stopping by some of the offices to—” the old man began.
“Make a touch,” Stone finished. “Sure thing. Help yourself to the egg nog, pops.” Then he cast a warm smile on the young woman. “Honey, step inside my private office … that’s where I keep the cash.”
He shut himself and the little dame inside his office and got a twenty-dollar bill out of his cashbox from a desk drawer, then tucked the bill inside the swell of the girl’s blouse.
Her eyes widened. “Please!”
“Baby, you don’t have to say ‘please.’ ” Stone put his hands on her waist and brought her to him. “Come on … give Santa a kiss.”
Her slap sounded like a gunshot, and stung like hell. He whisked the bill back out of her blouse.
“Some Christmas spirit you got,” he said, and opened the door and pushed her into the outer office.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the old man sputtered, and Stone wadded up the twenty, tossed it in the bucket, and shoved them both out the door.
“Squares,” he muttered, returning to his rum.
Before long, the door opened and a woman in black appeared there, like a curvaceous wraith. Her hair was icy blonde, her thin lips blood-red, like cuts in her angular white Joan Crawford-ish face. It had been a while since she’d seen forty, but she was better preserved than your grandma’s strawberry jam.
She fell immediately into his arms. “Merry Christmas, darling!”
“In a rat’s ass,” he said coldly, pushing her away.
“Darling … what’s wrong …?”
“You been calling the office again! I told you not to do that. People are gonna get the wrong idea.”
He’d been through this with her a million times: they were perfect suspects for Jake Marley’s murder; neither of them had an alibi for the time of the killing—Stone was in his apartment, alone, and Maggie claimed she’d been alone at home, too.
But to cover for each other, they had lied to the cops about being together at Marley’s penthouse, waiting for his return for a Christmas Eve supper.
“If people think we’re an item,” Stone told her, “we’ll be prime suspects!”
“It’s been a year.…”
“That’s not long enough.”
She threw her head back and her blonde hair shimmered, and so did her diamond earrings. “I want to get out of black, and be on your arm, unashamed.…”
“Since when were you ever ashamed of anything?” He shuddered, wishing he’d never met Maggie Marley, let alone climbed in bed with her; now, he was in bed with her, for God knew how long, and in every sense of the word.…
She touched his face with a gloved hand. “Are we spending Christmas Eve together, Richard?”
“Can’t, baby. Gotta spend it with relatives.”
“Who, your uncle and aunt?” She smirked in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re going back to farm country, to see them.… You hate it there!”
“Hey, wouldn’t be right not seein’ ’em. Christmas and all.”
Her gaze seemed troubled. “I’d hoped we could talk. Richard … we may have a problem …”
“Such as?”
“… Eddie’s trying to blackmail me.”
“Eddie? What does that slimy little bastard want?”
Eddie was Jake Marley’s brother.
“He’s in over his head with the Outfit,” she said.
“What, gambling losses again? He’ll never learn …”
“He’s trying to squeeze me for dough,” she said urgently. “He’s got photos of us, together … at that resort!”
“So what?” He shrugged.
“Photos of us in our room at that resort … and he’s got the guest register.”
Stone frowned. “That was just a week after Jake was killed.”
“I know. You were … consoling me.”
Who was she trying to kid?
Stone said, “I’ll talk to him.”
She moved close to him again. “He’s waiting for me now, at the Blue Spot Bar … would you keep the appointment for me, Richard?”
And she kissed him. Nobody kissed hotter than this dame. Or colder.…
Half an hour later, Stone
entered the smoky Rush Street saloon, where a thrush in a gown cut to her toenails was embracing the microphone, singing “White Christmas” off-key.
He found mustached weasel Eddie Marley sitting at the bar working on a Scotch—a bald little man in a bow tie and a plaid zoot suit.
“Hey, Dickie … nice to see ya. Buy ya a snort?”
“Don’t call me ‘Dickie.’ ”
“Stoney, then.”
“Grab your topcoat and let’s talk in my office,” Stone said, nodding toward the alley door.
A cat chasing a rat made garbage cans clatter as the two men came out into the alley. A cold Christmas rain was falling, puddling on the frozen remains of a snow and ice storm from a week before. Ducking into the recession of a doorway, Eddie got out a cigarette and Stone, a statue standing out in the rain, leaned in with a Zippo to light it for him.
For a moment, the world wasn’t pitch dark. But only for a moment.
“I don’t like to stick it to ya, Stoney … but if I don’t cough up five gees to the Outfit, I won’t live to see ’43! My brother left me high and dry, ya know.”
“I’m all choked up, Eddie.”
Eddie was shrugging. “Jake’s life insurance paid off big—double indemnity. So Maggie’s sittin’ pretty. And the agency partnership reverted to you—so you’re in the gravy. Where’s that leave Eddie?”
Stone picked him up by the throat. The little man’s eyes opened wide and his cigarette tumbled from his lips and sizzled in a puddle.
“It leaves you on your ass, Eddie.”
And the detective hurled the little man into the alley, onto the pavement, where he bounced up against some garbage cans.
“Ya shouldn’ta done that, ya bastid! I got the goods on ya!”
Stone’s footsteps splashed toward the little man. “You got nothin’, Eddie.”
“I got photos! I got your handwritin’ on a motel register!”
“Don’t try to tell me the bedroom-dick business. You bring me the negatives and the register page, and I’ll give you five C’s. First and last payment.”
The weasel’s eyes went very wide. “Five C’s?!? I need five G’s by tomorrow—they’ll break my knees if I don’t pay up! Have a heart—have some Christmas charity, fer chrissakes!”
The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Page 53
